


The Alphabet, According to Uchiha Itachi

by DoodlesOfTheMind



Category: Naruto
Genre: Death, Feels, Grief, Guilt, Loss, Love, M/M, Memory, Tragedy, reunited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:09:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1692803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoodlesOfTheMind/pseuds/DoodlesOfTheMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alphabet prompt. The pain of Itachi's existence after Shisui's death, and their final reunification in the afterlife. A study in characterization and progression through time, and a rare example of me doing overtly prompt-based writing. Please remember, I'm one of those authors that drinks my readers' tears with my morning coffee ^_^</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Alphabet, According to Uchiha Itachi

A is for assault. That is how you seemed to me at first, a burst of light and sound and unfamiliar _emotion_ thrust into my life without my consent. I wasn’t ready for anything you had to give, and yet... I needed it.  And you, my ever-present love, you always understood.

B is for barriers. There were so many between us. Age. Rank. Blood. There were so many reasons why we should never have done what we did. Been what we were. You laid out every argument in painstaking detail, and then looked me in the eye and asked if I was willing to throw that all away. And you didn’t ask again when I couldn’t answer.

C is for calculating. It’s what I couldn’t stop doing, except when I was with you. Politics never seemed so petty as when I heard you whisper of days spent without squabbling, power-driven fools tearing shreds from your soul. I was born to it, I could navigate those treacherous waters like a master, but when I came to the little island in the storm of my existence, I could lay in the warm sunlight and the heat of your arms around me. I didn’t need to think, because you taught me how to _feel_.

D is for deceit. How it must have tormented you to keep my secrets. To protect me the way you did. And how many more burdens did I heap on you before I realized it? How much did you have to conceal, even from me? The fading light of your eyes. The pain you suffered, always in silence. You kept me in the dark until it was too late for me to save you. And even now, I can hear your voice saying you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

E is for echoes. There are so many of you. Every smile on a stranger’s open, trusting face. A breath of crisp, autumn wind carrying the scent of the sea. Each taste of dango, that coveted treat which you so cruelly introduced me to. I eat it often now, if only to ensure that my memories of you never grow dim. I couldn’t bear it if I were ever to let them fade.

F is for forgetting. This is something I've never done. My memory was always so highly praised, even before I awakened the Sharingan's perceptive powers. Now, it is only sweet torture as I wallow in images, sounds, places so perfectly recorded that they could have been real again. The nights I would lay with my head in your lap, watching the fireflies in the forest. The feel of your heartbeat under my fingers. Your voice, bell-clear and musical, a sound I could revel in for a lifetime. I would not rid myself of these things, I could never let you go, but the notion of it is just painful enough to tempt me.

G is for ghost. Yours haunts my dreams, on the nights I dare to sleep. You’re there, beckoning from the very edge of my sight, pleading for me to come just a little closer so I might see you again. I know that if I take a single step to chase you now, I could never look back. And so, I do not sleep. Not until my body finally, inevitably fails me. And you’re there.

H is for home. It’s a feeling I never truly understood in the house my parents raised me in. You were the one to teach me what it meant, on your secondhand futon with those horrid green cushions. The threadbare rug that made my feet itch. The warmth of your chest against my back, your fingers in my hair. The smell of coffee, that strange, foreign drink that you craved so much. The place I never lived for more than a moment, and yet, it is the only place I shall ever think of that way.

I is for ice. You said it ran in my veins once. You took it back, begging me to forget the words you didn’t mean to reveal, but you never knew how right you were. I did not possess the fire of your spirit, the sunny smile that turned your lips into an artist’s masterpiece, the light in your eyes that spoke of hope, and love, and peace. These things were never mine, and I miss them now that they are no longer here for me to borrow.

J is for junkie. That’s what I’m becoming, now. The syringe is becoming as familiar as my kunai blades. Or as your fingers intertwined with mine. I keep myself alive for him, but I look forward to the day when I can set it all aside and embrace you once more. But for now, I inject the drugs into my blood, gritting my teeth against the molten lead that seems to sear through my body. And I know that I will do it again, and again. And when I see your face at night, I wonder why I try.

K is for kept. It’s what you did with your promises, even when I couldn’t. And what I do with every memory I have left of you. Of us. I took nothing but the band of cheap metal that hangs around my neck, your gift to me. I remember how ashamed of it you were, saying that it was nothing compared to the splendor that others showered upon me, but your little trinket is the most precious thing I have ever owned. I will carry it with me always.

L is for laughter. Another thing I have not experienced since that night at the river’s edge. Without you, my lips have forgotten the shape. My throat, the sound. Not that I ever truly mastered it, even with your gentle prodding. I heard it too seldom, and from too few sources, to understand the nuances behind the action. But you could make it feel like the most natural thing in the world for that strange, sweet sound to come forth from my lips, matching your own.

M is for murderer. That is what I am. Even now, I know you would deny this simple fact. You would scream and rage and bluster about until I believed you. Until you had convinced me that I am not what I have become, but the child you remember. I wish I could be that person, if only to give you comfort, but he is beyond me. Just as you are. I keep only death as my constant companion.

N is for nontraditional. It was your silly euphemism for our strange, unacceptable love. You saw your proverbial silver lining, and you took its threads to weave a tapestry of the life we would live. You showed me your apartment, suddenly smaller as both of us found space for our worldly possessions, side by side. You spoke of adopting children, or of me renouncing my birthright entirely and giving the leadership to my brother. You murmured stories in my ears of leaving Konohagakure no Sato. Of leaving the Land of Fire. And you silenced my protests with a smile, a kiss, a coveted delusion.

O is for open. That’s what you were. Your eyes. Your mind. Your heart. Always there, waiting for me to find my way in. My way home. Are you still waiting for me, my love? Can I, who have changed so much, fit in the same places that I once did? I fear I already know the answer, for how can something change so fundamentally while remaining the same?

P is for perfect. You used that word so much, and for such trivial things. The taste of onigiri. The sunset over the western battlements. The particular shade of red that my cheeks would turn when you dared to touch me, even in the most casual ways. I argued, once, that perfection was a singular sort of thing, and that it should not be tossed around with so little regard. You just rolled your eyes and said that every moment was perfect in and of itself, without comparison to others. And when I said that _you_ were perfect... The loving softness in your eyes could be described as nothing else.

Q is for questions. You said I asked too many of them. That it would lead to nothing but trouble. And yet, you stood beside me as I searched for answers, and you bore that fateful knowledge with me when we knew. You started asking the questions then. Where did my loyalties lie? What was my plan? How did I feel about you?

R is for reserved. That was how you described me. Not shy, aloof, haughty, or arrogant. This was also the lense you saw me through. When I was accused of being “too good” to join our cousins for lunch on a summer afternoon, you sat silently in a chair while I read in the peaceful shadows of your kitchen. When I didn’t speak to you for days, lost in my thoughts and machinations, you never took offense, and you were always ready for me when I crashed back to earth. You read the little gestures and subtle changes in my moods, and never complained of having any difficulty. You just...understood.

S is for sensual. You could turn anything into a feast for my perceptions. The warm grey of your eyes, brighter. Every little sound I coaxed out of you, clearer. Every caress, leaving a trail of goosebumps along my skin. To be with you was to be truly alive. And to leave you each time was another tragic suicide.

T is for tomorrow. That’s what I keep telling myself, when I see you again in my dreams. I’ll go to you tomorrow. I’ll run into your arms and drown in your voice again. Nothing will stop me. Tomorrow, I will put my ambitions, my duty, my _purpose_ aside. Tomorrow.

U is for unspoken. In the end, so much between us remained that way. Though I said I loved you, I never had the chance to explain that I did not simply _love_ you. You were everything to me, and more. You were the universe made to fit under a shared blanket on a spring morning. You were the air that filled my lungs with each breath, and without you, even oxygen itself seems to have turned to poison. I wonder, now, what I was to you. And then I see your face again, and I already know.

V is for visions. They come more frequently now. You, as a boy, waving to me as you dart ahead through the trees. You in your best kimono, teasingly asking me to dance with you at the spring festival, knowing all along that I could not accept. Your hand in mine when I stumble, and your arms cradling me to your chest as I cough into the darkness. And still, I must move forward. I must look away from your face, cringe back from your touch. I hope you will forgive me.

W is for wintertime. Snow falls again, and the chill robs me of my strength. I have so little time left before I can join you, but you have long since stopped pleading with me to hasten that time even further. The resignation in your eyes burns hotter than the obscene doses of chemicals that force my body to function for just a while longer. You see this, and it vanishes in an instant. You’re begging me again, smiling, laughing, cajoling.

X is for the little red mark they’ll put over my face in the bingo books. As my blood seeps into the ground and my lungs refuse to accept another breath, I can’t help but feel a small, broken smile touch my lips. One of the two people whom I have ever truly loved is as safe as I can make him, defended by the last vestiges of my chakra and my faith in his friends. I go now to rejoin the other.

Y is for you. It’s that simple, in the end. You are everything, and you are here.

Z is for zenith.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in one sitting, which is rare for me. It was also at 2AM with an unhealthy amount of caffeine in my system. I bawled like a baby while this came out, and I think it's one of my favorite pieces.
> 
> And yes, I kinda cheated on X, but it fits so perfectly that I kept it.


End file.
